


Why Don't You Play Me A Melody?

by MonoclePony



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Christmas Fluff, Connie is a terrible wingman, Jean is an artist how original, Jean's sister is fun but also scary, M/M, Marco is a music student, Mutual Pining, University AU, Yearning, clichés everywhere, fake dating au, meet the parents, the writer knows like two composers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-12 13:29:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28636308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MonoclePony/pseuds/MonoclePony
Summary: Jean told Marco it was a joke, it was obviously a joke, he didn’t have to look at him like that – but they’re now in Marco’s rattling old car, wrapped up in a million layers since the heating decided to die halfway through their journey, talking through the strategics of what is too much PDA for a fake relationship. Merry fucking Christmas to him, he guesses.To get his family off his back, roommates Jean (art student and resident disaster) and Marco (music prodigy and the most perfect human Jean's met in his life) decide to fake-date for the holidays. Little does Marco know, however, that Jean's been crushing on him since they met.It goes about as well as you'd expect.A gift for itsallaboutflowermetaphors for the JeanMarco Gift Exchange 2020.
Relationships: Marco Bott/Jean Kirstein
Comments: 7
Kudos: 60
Collections: JeanMarco Gift Exchange 2020





	Why Don't You Play Me A Melody?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [itsallaboutflowermetaphors](https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsallaboutflowermetaphors/gifts).



Jean’s the sort of person who was brought up on logic. It’s kind of ironic, then, that he a) chose to go to Ackerman Arts school and b) got himself into this situation in the first place.

_It’s a favour_ , he reminds himself. _Just a favour. Roommate to roommate. Happens all the time._

Yeah. Favours. Like cleaning their shared room when the other one was too tired from a three-hour life drawing class. Or making enough chilli for two instead of keeping one portion aside for lunch the next day. _Those_ were favours. This? This was way more than that. It’s quite possibly going to end Jean’s whole entire life, and it hasn’t even started yet. Who in the hell is he kidding, _a favour_? Fuck…

His roommate happens to be one Marco Bodt, scholarship music prodigy who can play _anything_ he puts his hands on, and Jean is maybe a little bit in love with him. A crumb. A smidge. “You are hopelessly in love with him,” Connie tells him. Jean’s only now beginning to accept that his idiot friend has something there.

It’s not like he can help himself; Marco is just one of those people who makes it easy. It doesn’t even remotely help that he’s Jean’s type with a capital ‘T’: he’s tall, he’s dark, he gets fucking dimples when he _laughs_ for god’s sake. What’s Jean supposed to do, _not_ fantasise about their life together every waking moment?

For perspective’s sake: the first time they met, Jean walked into their Ackerman dorm with his Student Welcome Pack under one arm and a suitcase in the other. Marco was sat cross-legged on the floor, keyboard in lap, playing a gentle melody with one hand and writing the chords with the other. He looked up, said a gentle, “oh, hello”, and well. Jean was just about fucked.

It’s been a whole term now, and he’s still not over it. That doesn’t seem like a long time, but when you’re in the guy’s proximity for that long it feels like years. Plus Jean has a real problem with fixation, according to his old therapist. This, however, doesn’t excuse whatever the hell kinda stunt he’s pulled to get into Marco’s car.

It is completely his fault. It happened whilst he was hanging out in the music rooms with Marco while he was working on a Chopin piece. He was watching Marco’s hands too intently, the finite way they skimmed over the keys and left their echo behind in the notes that bounced and waved around the room. They were talking about the Christmas break and what their plans were, and he let it slip that his family had been giving him grief about bringing someone home for the holidays.

“I mean, I think they’re fully expecting me to waltz through the door with a future husband in tow,” he was saying, idly sketching between glances at Marco’s hands. The sketch was obviously of Marco’s hands, but that isn’t relevant to the story _at all._

Marco hummed thoughtfully as he played. “I can relate. My mums are a nightmare. They just want to see me find a nice boy and settle down. And sell out enough concert halls to pay off their house.”

And then it just came out, a half-formed thought that bumbled out his mouth like it wasn’t sure it could be said. “I wish I could take _you_ home or something, just to shut ‘em up.”

A jarring smash of chords sent Jean’s hand across the sketchbook, pencil slashing cruelly through the careful drawing he’d been working on. Marco’s hands, usually so precise, were suddenly too heavy and clumsy on the keys. With a small huff he gave up the rest of the Chopin and set his eyes on Jean. And then, obviously, Jean wasn’t sketching anymore. Marco didn’t ask, but he didn’t have to. The quizzical look on his face was enough.

Jean told Marco it was a joke, it was obviously a joke, he didn’t have to look at him like that – but they’re now in Marco’s rattling old car, wrapped up in a million layers since the heating decided to die halfway through their journey, talking through the strategics of what is too much PDA for a fake relationship. Merry fucking Christmas to him, he guesses.

“We don’t wanna seem smug,” Marco is in the middle of saying, “so we probably don’t wanna be too handsy.”

God, Jean does not want to have this conversation. Sinking down into the seat, he mumbles, “I’m not great with PDA anyway, so that checks out. Mum wouldn’t suspect anything.”

“You don’t like PDA?” Marco raises both brows in lieu of actually looking at Jean, since he’s a sensible driver and keeps his eyes on the road – unlike Jean, who is always scrabbling around for loose change or an acceptable radio station. “How does someone not like PDA?”

“Someone who was closeted until about six months ago,” Jean mutters. And touch-starved to a fault, but the hell is he going to let that one out of the bag.

“Oh wow,” is Marco’s helpful response. Jean debates on taking out the child lock on this thing and rolling onto the highway. “Point taken. So how much could you get away with?”

Marco talks about the whole thing so simply, like he’s done it a hundred times before – and here Jean is, trying not to blush at the thought of any kind of contact with Marco. Jesus, Connie is gonna have a fucking field day when he hears about this.

He swallows dryly, realising that Marco is expecting an answer, and says, “I think hand holding is fine. Or, uh, putting your arm around me.” It comes out a lot steadier than he expects. Emboldened by this, he only leaves a short pause before adding, “What about kissing?”

He tries to ignore the way Marco’s fingers flex around the wheel at the question. “I dunno,” he says lightly, apparently unphased. “Probably nothing on the mouth. You okay with that?”

Jean snorts. “Alright, _Pretty Woman,_ no kissing on the mouth.”

Marco hums thoughtfully, and Jean thinks he’s been let off the hook. For a while he is; Marco asks him to find a CD in his very organised pack of naked discs, Jean chooses Queen because it’s not only the easy option (everyone loves Queen) he is weak for Freddie Mercury, and they drive in silence for a while. Freddie’s voice cuts through the car’s space as he asks if anyone can find him somebody to love, and Jean wonders why even Queen has abandoned him.

It’s not too far from the city now. Trost is large and sprawling, and even though his mother lives on the outskirts they’ll still get caught up in the rush hour traffic. He’s about to point out a shortcut to Marco when he says, “We should probably get our stories straight on how we met,” which throws Jean for a fucking loop.

“S-sorry?”

“If your mum is anything like mine, she is going to ask how we got together. It’s a classic Parent Question.”

“Oh.” Jean frowns. “Right.”

“So, how did we?” Marco prompts gently.

“Uh…” Jean has nothing. He’s a creative type, he has to have some idea… but nope. Not an iota. There might as well be tumbleweeds in his brain with how much use it is. He scrabbles around for something, and then: “how about we met because you came into the bookshop I was working in and bought a terrible travel book? And then I went to go get lunch, and I had coffee, and I bumped into you on the street and I spilled it all over y-”

“That’s Notting Hill.”

“Sorry?”

“You’re telling me the story of Notting Hill.” Marco’s mouth turns up into a half-smile. “Notting Hill cannot be our meet-cute, Jean.”

“Oh okay, so do you have any ideas, genius?”

“Not yet, but I can improvise.” Marco settles into his seat as they reach the traffic. “Okay, forget how we met. What do I need to know about _you_?”

Jean blinks, wrongfooted by the sudden change of subject. “Uh. You know plenty about me.”

“No, no, I know about Art College Jean. I don’t know about who you are at home.”

Jean frowns. “Who’s to say there’s a difference?”

Marco sighs. “You just told me you came out three months before moving away. That means you were pretending to be straight for, what, seventeen years?” Since they’re stopped now, Marco chances a look at him. It makes Jean’s insides squirm. “That’s a long time to not be who you are.”

Jean shrugs. He swears the temperature is rising in the car, but it has nothing to do with the faulty heater. “I dunno, I guess… until my Dad left, I was kind of scared.”

Marco knows about this. He knows about Jean’s Dad leaving the family because he got a better offer, that Jean was always closer to his mother anyway and he’s _fine,_ he really is. But Jean’s also not seen his Dad since he moved away to Ackerman, and hasn’t heard from him since he came out over the phone and got a dialling tone in response. But Marco still makes a sympathetic noise anyway and puts the handbrake on. His car lets out a sigh of relief as the pressure is taken off, and Marco looks at Jean again.

“You don’t have to tell me everything,” he says, soothing, “but just a few little things. Family things.”

Jean lets out a sigh. “Well. Okay.”

He tells him how they moved to Trost when he was six, and he was a quiet, wimpy sort of kid. He tells Marco he’s got an older sister who is staying in the house too. He gives him an anecdote about one particular Christmas incident with a tree and a fishing rod and Marco laughs so hard he gets honked by the person behind when the traffic starts moving. It’s nice, giving Marco a pick-n-mix of his life; he can leave out the painful, irrelevant bits and keep the nice stuff.

Marco, bless him, repeats these little stories back to him, tucking them away for when the inevitable questions come. Jean’s actually quite impressed he can remember it all, down to the last detail. But then again, he is a musician. God is in the detail.

He learns more about Marco, too. It’s remarkably candid. “I was adopted when I was a baby, so I don’t remember my birth parents. I don’t really mind – sure, I have their genes or whatever, but my mums are my parents, so uh. Yeah. Got adopted young. My mums met at University, always wanted kids so they got me. They bought me my first keyboard when I was two, and they had neighbours banging on their doors every time I played. Started lessons for the piano when I was six, viola at eight, had to get two buses after school every day to go practice but I did it. I just fell in love with the music, I guess.”

Jean wishes he had something to make notes.

Their chatter wiles away the time in standstill traffic, and once they peel away from the slow crawl they’re faced with rougher roads, more suburban territory. Despite his nerves at this whole thing, Jean finds a fondness in his chest for the overarching trees either side of them and the neat lawns now lightly dusted with snow. He can see the little ghosts of him running along pavements, jumping in puddles, doing tricks on his bike. He smiles to himself. Home. It’s nice to be back, even if it’s just for a little while.

He points out his house to Marco, a large three-bed that stands alone from the others with a front gate and smoke curling out of their chimney. Marco grins at it. “Looks like a child’s drawing,” he remarks, and Jean can’t argue with him there. Four square windows. A door in the middle. Smart red roof. It’s exactly how kids draw houses, and Jean never fails to feel content just looking at it.

They pull into the drive and Marco switches the engine off. They just sit for a few moments. Jean’s comfort is quickly replaced by anxiety, and he shoots Marco a look. His roommate looks less like he’s about to be taken out and shot, he reckons, but there’s a hint of caution hidden behind the eyes that fix on him in return. “You still want to do this?” Jean asks. It seems like a dumb question. “We can… I can just say you’re a friend, it’s not a big-”

“No, it’s okay. We can do this.” Marco smiles, big and reassuring. “I’ve had the practice.”

Jean blinks. “Wait, what?”

But Marco’s already unbuckling his seatbelt, reaching into the backseat to grab his bags and a potted plant he insisted bringing for Jean’s mother. Jean has no choice but to do the same, fumbling for his things.

They stumble out of the car together, and the closer they get to the door the more bravery seems to fall away from Jean in layers. He wonders if he can just ring the doorbell and then make a run for it, but just as he’s thinking it he feels Marco shift his bags and slide a hand into his. It’s warm. He squeezes. “I’ll follow your lead.”

Jean wheezes out a breath and nods. Okay. It will be okay.

He rings the bell. He squeezes Marco’s hand again, and he swears it’s just for good luck. There’s movement behind the glass, and then the door opens.

It’s not Jean’s mother who greets them. The woman looks a little hassled, dressed in an expensively-cut business suit and her dark hair plucked into an unceremonious bun. Her eyes dart from Jean to Marco and back again, and when they finally settle on Jean she raises a brow.

“No carol singers today, bye.”

She goes to shut the door. Jean jams his foot in the gap and shoulders it back open. “Shut the fuck up, Eddie.”

His sister smirks at him. “Nice to see you too, kid.” Her eyes fall back on Marco again. “You didn’t say you were bringing a…” Her voice trails off as her brow raises higher, and Jean _knows_ what she wants him to say. He leaves her hanging, because he is the asshole little brother and likes watching her struggle. “…friend?” she decides on eventually.

Jean looks to Marco worriedly. “Uh… sort of?”

Jesus christ, he needs better material.

His sister’s eyes, heavily lidded since she opened the door, snap open wide. “Oh. Oh holy shit.” She turns her head and bellows over her shoulder, “MA. JEAN’S BROUGHT A BOY HOME.” Jean winces at the volume.

Amid a clattering noise from the kitchen Jean’s mother shouts back, “JEANBO BROUGHT A _REAL_ BOY HOME?”

“YEAH.”

“A BOY _FRIEND_?”

“THINK SO.”

“OH MY GOODNESS, LET THEM IN AND GET THE GOOD CROCKERY.”

His sister hesitates, like she’s not sure if this really is Jean or a very good lookalike (and honestly, Jean doesn’t blame her – there’s no way he could bring a guy like this home off his own back), then backs away into the hidden depths of the house. Marco shares a look with him, and Jean has the time to mouth, “sorry,” before he leads them inside, still joined by the hands.

His mother always decorates like an entire Christmas shop exploded in their living room, and that’s essentially what Jean and Marco are met with today; there is tinsel everywhere, draped over every photo on the wall like creeping ivy. And _god,_ there are a lot of pictures. Shit, Jean kind of forgot how many there are – and most of them are of the family, or individual shots of him or his sisters throughout their lives. No baby pictures though, thank god, he thinks to himself. He has no choice but to continue leading Marco into the hellscape that is his home, and towards the kitchen where questionable smells are emanating from.

“So, you’ve met Eddie,” he mutters under his breath to Marco, “And before you ask, yes, she bites.”

Marco chuckles quietly. “I’ll bear it in mind. Why do you call her Eddie?”

“Her name’s Edwina, but she hates it.” Jean smiles. “So… Eddie.”

“Got it. And your mother’s name is…?”

At that exact moment, the very woman slides into view. She’s small, about a head shorter than Jean with greying hair that explodes from her head in once-blonde curls. She’s not the best mother in the world, but she makes up for it in boundless enthusiasm.

Her apron is stained and looks like it could possibly be smoking, but Jean doesn’t have too time to dwell on it. With a squeal of “JEANBO” he’s enfolded into her arms and swayed from side to side by the strength of the embrace. He lets go of Marco’s hand at this point, mainly because it feels fucking dumb to still have it in a vice grip and maybe because he needs all his limbs to bat his mother away. “Ow ow ow ma, _ma_ ,” he complains, wriggling feebly in her grasp.

“I’ve missed you so much, argh!” she squeezes him impossibly tighter. “You are not going back to that school, never never never.”

“I kinda need to if I wanna graduate,” he croaks.

“Ah, so this is what aggressive love looks like from the back,” Eddie comments, leaning in the doorway with a grin. “Don’t think you’re too special, she was exactly the same when I went. Bless. Ma’s had a sherry.”

“Ugh, insulted by my own children!” She mercifully lets go of Jean, but his torture isn’t over yet. She’s turned towards Marco, who is holding out the plant like a shield. Her smile widens. “Oh, you are _handsome_.”

“Ma!”

“He is!” She looks to Marco. “You are!”

Marco has the good grace to laugh. Jean wants to slip through a gap in the floorboards and never come out. “Well, thank you Mrs Kirschtein. I guess me and Jean match pretty well.”

Jean gazes wide-eyed at him. Marco smiles innocently back. Did he just…?

“Oh, please! Call me Linette.” She lets out a little titter that is her ‘trying to impress someone laugh’ and pats him gently on the shoulder. She has to go on tiptoes to do it. “Well, welcome to our home! It’s lovely to have you here, um…?” She leaves the sentence hanging.

“Marco,” Jean supplies. Maybe he slipped into a coma somewhere along the line and none of this is really happening. That would be the best.

“Right! Marco.” She smiles. “You’ll have to forgive me, my son doesn’t tell me anything important!”

Eddie’s eyes narrow. “No,” she says thoughtfully, “he doesn’t.”

Jean shuffles uncomfortably. “Well, maybe I thought you’d be weird about it,” he defends. He knows Marco is looking at him, and ducks his head down to avoid the full blast of it. “It’s not a big deal. Really.”

“Pretty big deal, if you ask me,” Eddie muses, only loud enough for Jean to hear.

Their mother ignores Eddie, and eyes the plant in Marco’s arms instead. “What a wonderful poinsettia.”

Marco finds his voice remarkably quickly, given the subject change. “Oh, this is for you.” He holds it out at an arm’s length. “I didn’t know what you liked, so I thought a poinsettia would-”

“Oh bless you! It’s beautiful.” She takes it from him and cradles it close to her chest, beaming. “You two got here just in time, dinner’s almost ready. Go ahead, go sit, Eddie can get the drinks, _argh_. So nice to have guests.”

“What am I, the plumber?” Eddie grumbles.

“Edwina, come!” Linette beckons to her daughter to follow, and with a roll of her eyes Eddie does as she’s told.

“You only get a free pass because you have a date,” she mutters under her breath, which leaves Jean a little red-faced as she heads through the archway into the kitchen.

When Marco turns to look at him, Jean is ready for it. “They’re a lot,” he blurts out.

Marco blinks. “Um?”

“I forgot. I’m sorry. They get a bit giddy when someone comes over. Ma’s a little… well she’s just… and Eddie’s a…”

“Jean.” Marco’s hand on his shoulder makes him jolt. “Breathe.”

He’s smiling. That’s a good thing, right? He isn’t making an excuse or bolting for the door, so that’s… something? Jean tries to catch a glimpse of the kitchen his mother and sister disappeared into, and sees they’re safe for a minute or two. He breathes. He steadies himself, and he swears to god it’s not because of that hand on his shoulder, rubbing circles with a thumb.

“Jean, they’re fine.”

Jean lets out a huff. “They’re far from ‘fine’, Marco.”

“Well they’re not raging homophobes, which was my first thought,” Marco says, which shuts Jean up. “I was planning an exit route for the whole drive that I won’t even have to use.”

Jean relaxes. The thought of Marco having a plan for something like that makes him wonder if that’s ever happened to him before. He’s reminded of the fact that he’s only known Marco for a few months; the history surrounding his sexuality really wasn’t something they brought up over pizza in their dorm room. Jean bites his lip as he realises how close they’re standing, and takes a conscious step back. _You’re not actually dating him, Jean, get a grip. He doesn’t want you that close._ “What was the, uh, plan?” he asks, more to stop himself thinking too much. “For the escape, I mean.”

Marco grins. “Oh, it was pretty much a case of throw the poinsettia, grab you and make for the nearest window.”

“You were gonna take me with you?”

Marco’s gaze softens. “Of course I’d take you with me.”

Jean opens his mouth to respond, but Eddie calls from the kitchen, “Marco, are you a red, white or rose guy?” to which Marco answers, “Rose, please, I’m basic,” without missing a beat. This makes Eddie laugh, and Jean maybe wants Marco to stay forever.

* * *

In all fairness, dinner could have gone worse. As predicted, Jean’s mother and Eddie grill Marco to within an inch of his life about what he does, where he comes from and his prospects like Jean is going to up and marry him, and even when the dinner is finished and they’re sat around drinking wine, the questions continue thick and fast. A particular highlight is when his mother asks Marco if his parents are okay with him dating another boy. Marco replies, with a grin, that they would be a little hypocritical if they didn’t, considering he’s been raised by lesbians. Jean chokes on his wine as his mother fumbles to right her awkward question, and Eddie laughs so hard she nearly falls back on her chair. It’s going well. It’s going really, really well.

And then Eddie asks the big question.

“So, how did you two start dating?”

And Jean’s carefully constructed lie, the one he was beginning to get used to, falls the fuck apart.

He eyes Marco with a spark of fear, his fork frozen halfway to his mouth. “Oh, you don’t want to hear about that, do you?” Marco laughs a little uneasily, shooting Jean a look that thinly veils how nervous he is.

“Of course!” Jean’s mother protests. “We want to know everything.”

“Not _everything_ ,” Eddie clarifies.

Jean swallows painfully. “C’mon Ma, it’s not important.”

But he isn’t going to get away with it. No way. Shit, Jean sincerely regrets the amount of time he spent talking to Marco about anything but the little arrangement they have going on, and wishes he’d just had more balls and _spoken_ to him about all this, the important shit, because now they were going to be found out and it was all Jean’s fault and there was nothing he could do-

“Well,” Marco says, putting down his cutlery with an easy-going laugh, “okay, if you insist. But it’s a bit of a cliché.”

“Huh.” Eddie raises an eyebrow. “That’s convenient.”

Jean kicks her under the table.

“Well we’re roommates at Ackerman,” Marco begins with a conscious glance at Jean, “I guess you remember that.”

“Of course!” Jean’s mother pipes up. “I could tell from the very beginning my Jean was smitten. Saw it in his eyes. A mother knows these things.”

Dear god, Jean is going to dig his own grave right here, in the middle of the family dinner table. Thankfully, Marco doesn’t pick up on that – if he does, he has the best goddamn poker face Jean’s ever seen – and takes a sip of wine. “Well, that’s not exactly the moment. At first I was just happy Jean wasn’t some rich rugby guy who’d picked Art as an easy option. You get that a lot, you know, in art schools. Rich people who are getting their family’s business anyway, so they don’t make an effort. But Jean was normal, and I was pretty relieved about that.” He laughs. “But it was just that – relief – for a little while. And we got on. We were friends.”

Eddie leans in close, her leg brushing against Jean’s as she smiles demurely at Marco. “So? Get to the good part!”

“Okay, okay!” Marco laughs again, but this time it’s soft and quiet. When he talks again, it’s soft to match. “So it happened in October, just before Halloween. We both had assignments due and we hadn’t seen much of one another, so after my recital I decided to visit Jean in the art rooms. Bring him some food, so he could keep working and have some company.”

Jean blinks. He remembers this day – it was near the end of his first final, he had a giant wooden board he was painting the subject of _Fear_ onto, and he was pissed off. It wasn’t going right, and he didn’t have time to scrap it and start again. And Marco had a piece to compose that was, apparently, really kicking his ass.

“So I ordered in the takeaway I knew Jean liked-”

“Salt and pepper chicken,” his family chorus around him.

Marco grins. “Right! And I take it to him. And it was late, we’re talking, oh… eleven at night? I was determined to make him stop, just for a little bit.” Marco’s smile turns wistful, as though he’s stepping back into the memory of carrying that little plastic bag with the Chinese takeaway’s cheery logo emblazoned on it into the art rooms, ducking around the corner from any prowling tutors since food wasn’t strictly allowed in the art block. “And I push the door of his art room open, and… and I see him.” His smile grows warm, his gaze directed onto his plate like he’s a little embarrassed about admitting it. Jean just sits there, half gaping at him. Unmoving.

“And?” Eddie prompts eagerly.

“That’s it. I just see him,” Marco says, shrugging helplessly. “He’s got barely any lights on, just a couple hanging over him, so it sort of… makes him glow in the middle of the room. He’s so lost in concentration that he doesn’t even notice someone else came in. He’s so… focused. And I remember thinking to myself, ‘My God…he’s the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen.’”

There’s silence around the table. Jean expects Marco to be looking at his plate, too weighed down by his own words to do anything else – but he’s not. He’s looking right at him, smiling ever so slightly. And for a moment, Jean allows himself to believe it. Because it all happened, every single detail. Even down to the art room and the chicken. But it also didn’t. Marco didn’t drop the takeaway bag on the floor, stride over to him and kiss him like they were in some romantic film. He didn’t ask him, with an anxious earnest, whether he wanted to go on a date sometime. What he did do was put the takeaway on the desk, slide into the seat opposite him and put his hand out for the brush. Jean reluctantly gave it up, dragged the bag closer, and they ate in the art rooms in a subdued silence.

But this version? Jean likes this version more.

“It was that little moment,” Marco sighs, “that I knew I wanted to be with him.”

He says it like it’s a final flourish. The fade out from a crescendo.

Jean kind of wants to cry, a little. His mother actually _is_ crying, though she scrubs the tears from her face before anyone notices. Eddie’s brows are fully into her hair now, as she looks between Jean and Marco and back again like they’re enacting a very exciting tennis match. Marco just sits there in the middle of them all, half-smiling in Jean’s direction, and Jean doesn’t have a clue what to do about that. He’s very aware that he’s going to have to say something soon, though. He gulps. He steels himself. And then he says, “Uh. Yeah. Like he said,” like some sort of idiot.

Marco grins. “He’s shy about it,” he says, shifting closer to him like it’s the most normal thing in the world. Jean tenses a little as Marco’s arm comes over the back of his chair and tickles the back of his neck, but forces himself to relax. _It’s Marco, for god’s sake, calm the fuck down._ “But when I asked him on a date, he nearly fell off his chair trying to get to me.” He draws him in close, squeezing him with a comfort Jean hasn’t felt in a long time – and then he’s released, back to being in his own space and his own chair, and Marco’s picking up his fork and continuing to eat. “So, yeah. I guess it’s a little cliché,” he finishes, and the illusion is complete.

“It sounds perfect,” Jean’s mother sighs. Eddie purses her lips at the two of them, but even she seems convinced. Shit, _Jean’s_ convinced and he knows it’s a lie. Marco’s magic, he decides as they finish off the meal on a different subject. Definitely magic.

Jean’s next opportunity to talk to Marco about it doesn’t come around until they’re heading to his childhood bedroom. It’s been an evening of polite conversation and a few more drinks; his mother spent it laughing at every feeble joke Marco told and Eddie kept up the suspicious act, squinting at them from across the living room. It was never the right time to slip away or ask Marco for a chat in the kitchen – so Jean had to sit. Suffering. And now it feels like it’s gonna burst out of him like an alien if he has to keep it to himself one moment more.

“Hold on a sec,” he whispers, pressing a hand to Marco’s chest. Obediently, Marco stops. “Can we… can we talk about what happened at dinner?”

“Uh,” Marco says.

Jean winces. This is probably too much, right? He’s overstepping, and Marco’s gonna say he regrets it and he’s gonna call his parents to come get him or he’ll get a hotel and-

“Could we do this when we’re not in the middle of your stairs?”

Ah. Okay, he’s got him there.

Jean leads him down the hallway towards his bedroom, passing a couple of shut doors on the way. He’s pretty sure his mother calls out from her room, but he’s not paying enough attention. Marco calls out a, “goodnight,” instead, which is another brownie point for him, before Jean manages to shepherd him into his bedroom and shut the door behind them. There. Out of the way of narrowed eyes and probing questions.

He was the one who took their bags upstairs, so this is the first time Marco’s seen his bedroom. He walks around it with mute interest, hands reaching out to pick up objects and retreating just before they make contact. There’s a couple of band posters on his wall that Jean listened to when he was fifteen (and, if he’s honest, still listens to now) and a large desk that stretches the length of his large window. It was once a graveyard of sketchbooks, pencils, paints, but now that’s all strewn over his desk back at their dorm this one seems – empty. Naked. It’s a little bit like being naked in front of Marco right now, as he’s looking at this mini museum of Jean Kirschtein, and Jean isn’t sure he’s a fan of it. It makes him forget what he wants to say, until Marco turns around and points out a band he recognises. “ _Shark Puppy_?” he questions with a shit-eating grin. “Really?”

“They were good and the bassist was hot!” Jean defends hotly, and just like that the weight falls away. It’s like they’re back at the dorms, just joking around and annoying one another. God, it’s so easy, why does it have to be so easy?

“So, what did you want to talk to me about?” Marco asks, crossing the room to perch on his bed. Jean may have forgotten that there was only the one bed, and the fact that Marco is currently sitting on it isn’t doing his brain any favours. “You have notes already? I thought it was going well.”

Jean sputters at him. “Uh, _yeah_ it is, you made my mother fucking _cry,_ dude.”

Marco snorts out a laugh. “Dude?” he parrots. “Well, sorry I was too authentic, _bro_.”

Jean rolls his eyes. “C’mon, it’s not like that. I just mean… it was a bit…” _Heartfelt? Genuine? Made me hope so much it’s making my chest hurt?_ “…much?” he settles for. Marco blinks at him as he explains hurriedly, “I mean, we’re meant to have been dating for, what, a month or two?”

“Well, I’m sorry you feel that way,” Marco says calmly, “but that’s the way I love people.”

This stops Jean in his tracks. “O-oh?” he croaks.

Marco doesn’t notice, thank god. “Yeah. If I want to be with someone, Jean, I commit.” He gives a casual shrug. “It’s why I get my heart broken a lot.”

“Do you?” God, Jean’s starting to sound like a squeaky toy.

“Sure.” Marco leans back on the bed, his jumper and shirt riding up _just_ enough to make Jean lose his mind. “I get crushes. I fall really hard, and then I have to put back all the pieces when it doesn’t work out.” He shrugs again, like it’s no big deal, but Jean knows that it’s a fucking huge deal, thank you very much. The idea that anyone at all would turn down someone like Marco is unfathomable to him. But, then again, he is pretty biased. “It was worse when I was younger. When I first came out, I was kind of naïve.”

Oh, Jean can see it. Jean can see bright-eyed and innocent Marco, trailing around his school after the handsome boy and never getting a look in. Maybe it was a good thing Jean didn’t come out until he was eighteen – he missed out on all that playground puppy love bullshit and jumped straight into the terrifying dating pool headfirst. He bites his lip, remembering Marco’s comment getting out of the car. _I’ve had the practice._ “It’s shitty that you felt like that,” he says, which apparently surprises Marco into sitting up.

“Well, I’m the one who fell for them,” he replies. “If it’s anyone’s fault it’s mine.”

“You shouldn’t have to blame yourself for wanting something good,” Jean says, and it comes out fiercer than he expects.

They both go quiet, gazing at different spots in the room. Jean wishes he had the guts right now to sit down on the bed next to him, to take his hand and ask if he meant all that back in the dining room. How he really, really wants it to be true, and how it’s fine it didn’t happen back then but it can happen now. It could happen whenever Marco wants it to, and Jean would be okay with it. Because he’s pretty sure he loves him so much he’s gonna burst. The love is swelling up in him like a helium balloon, and if it doesn’t find a way to get out soon…

“Anyway.” Jean clears his throat. “My family love you. And, uh, one day down. Two more to go. Then you’re shot of me.” He smiles weakly.

Marco doesn’t return it. “Yeah. Right. Shot of you.” He shakes himself, letting out a sigh. “And I think I’ve sold your mum, but Eddie’s going to need more work.”

“Oh I wouldn’t worry about Eddie, she’s dead inside.”

Marco tries to smile, but it doesn’t work. It needs erasing and sketching out again. Jean doesn’t think it’s a good idea to dwell on _that_.

He retreats to the other side of his bed and takes a sleep shirt and a pair of pyjama trousers out of his bag. Dressing in front of Marco is something he’s done every day since September, but this feels different. This is in his room the room he was so sure would never see another boy except himself; and not only does he have a boy in his room, it’s _Marco._ So he turns away to take his shirt off and swap it in record time. His skin prickles with the brief chill and he shudders as he pulls on the old shirt, softened by years of washing. He freezes when he realises it doesn’t smell like his detergent. It smells like Marco’s.

“Oh shit.” He turns back to face Marco, burning with embarrassment. “So, uh, is this okay for the authentic boyfriend experience?”

Marco’s eyes land on what is undoubtedly his shirt. It’s a size larger than Jean usually buys, and is midway down his thighs since Marco’s so fucking tall. He stares for a long time and – and does he fucking _gulp_? – before he says, “oh,” in this soft, punched-out way that makes Jean’s knees buckle. “Uh, why do you have my…?”

“It must have been in with the other stuff I packed!” Jean hisses. This is most definitely a lie. “I just chucked it all in a bag and left.”

“You had your stuff on the floor.” It’s not even a question – Marco knows that’s what he does, and constantly judges him for it. Today, though, Jean’s happy there’s a reason. “Don’t you… um, don’t you have anything here?”

“Anything I didn’t take to Ackerman went into storage,” Jean explains, somewhat pathetically. He plucks at the material tentatively. “I’m sorry, is this weird? I feel like it’s weird.”

“It’s weird,” Marco agrees, “but it’s okay. Keep it. S’not one of my favourites anyway.” But he’s still staring. Still looking Jean up and down in his shirt. _You’re being weird,_ Jean thinks. _Weird, weird, weird._

After a heated debate about who is going to sleep on the floor and who is in the bed, they both end up in the bed. Under the same covers. Staring up at the ceiling. Because, yep, this is fucking weird.

Jean wills himself to breathe a little better than a victim in a horror movie and turns to face Marco after a little while, hoping that he might have fallen asleep. He hasn’t. But he turns towards Jean too, almost like he was waiting for him. That makes something soft bloom in Jean’s chest he feels the urge to stomp down on. “I really am grateful that you came,” he says, his voice sounding far too big in the gloom. “You didn’t have to, and it’s… it’s just really fucking nice of you.”

“Well, I wouldn’t do it for anyone,” Marco admits, curling his body around under the covers.

Jean can’t help but smile. “Because I am so dashing and irresistible, huh?” he jokes – because it is a joke, he’s none of those things.

Marco bites his lip around his own smile. “Nah. I’ve just never seen someone so pathetic in my life.”

“Hey!” Jean aims a pillow at him and Marco snorts out a laugh, ducking under the covers to avoid the down-stuffed projectile. “What happened to walking in and seeing me in the art room and thinking I was the most beautiful thing you ever saw?”

“You contain multitudes, Jean.”

“Oh fuck you!”

They mess around a little longer, batting at each other with the pillows or trying to kick one another out of bed, but eventually they settle down as sleep aches at the edges of Jean’s eyes. He curls the duvet around his body to keep as much heat as possible in, and prays to all the gods in the known universe that he doesn’t move in his sleep.

* * *

Spoilers: he fucking moves in his sleep and all of the gods in the known universe want him dead. He finds it out the hard way, when the light blazing through his thin curtains make him squint as he wakes up – and elicits a sleepy groan from the body he’s wrapped around like a boa constrictor. Jean goes rigid. Fuck, fuck, fuck. The first time he shares a bed with Marco and he pulls this shit? He is well and truly doomed.

But Marco’s not awake just yet; the groan is just a reaction to Jean moving, and he soon relaxes back against the pillow. It gives Jean a minute to see what kind of mess he’s gotten himself into. He inches himself back a little, just to see, and at some point in the night he clearly shuffled close, tangled their legs together and Marco did the rest. He thinks… shit, he thinks he had his head on Marco’s _chest_. And… oh no. He’d _drooled._ Fucking hell, this is a nightmare.

Marco hums happily in his sleep and draws Jean closer, skimming a hand down his back idly. Everything about Jean is on fire, but there is no way in hell he’s going to move. The selfish, greedy part of his psyche roots him to the spot, refusing to budge. He wonders if this is what it would be like, actually waking up with Marco as his boyfriend. They would do this all the time, if it were true; in this room, in their room at Ackerman, even at Marco’s house where Jean has never visited. God, Jean wouldn’t be able to get enough of it.

He feels like such a creep watching Marco as he sighs and shuffles around, eyes still closed. Jean took a life drawing class once where they had to work with a ‘sleeping’ model, and as he’d sketched the softened features and loose muscles his tutor remarked that a sleeping person is at the most peaceful they’ll ever be. Jean isn’t too sure about that – he’s never seen himself sleeping, but he definitely isn’t what you call _peaceful_ – but when he looks at Marco, he realises there’s no change. Marco’s just calm. Or maybe that’s just how he makes Jean feel.

God, don’t go _there_.

But Jean does. He goes there. He knows how every time Marco’s around him, something in him settles like it was waiting for him the whole time. He knows this is something more than just a stupid crush that’ll go away eventually, even though he hoped it would. It’s this that makes him reach up, in the small space between them, to brush his fingers through his hair, tucking it back behind his ear since it was all over the place. Marco liked being neat when he was around people. Only Jean gets to see the messy, ruffled Marco. It’s nice. It’s like a little bonus for living with him.

Marco hums and turns his head into the motion like a cat. Jean smiles and does it more, coaxing the unruly black hair through his fingers and working out the knots he finds there. A little sigh comes stuttering out of Marco’s chest. Shit, Jean could get used to this. He leans closer, pressing their heads together with a sigh of his own. _Don’t wake up_ , he wills Marco. _Please don’t wake up. I don’t want this to end too soon._

And then Marco opens his eyes. And Jean freezes, the way he always does, the way he always will-

But this isn’t like other times, other near misses. This time, Marco’s eyes flicker shut and he reaches for Jean too.

Their first kiss is weighted with sleepiness, a gentle press of lips together. It takes Jean by surprise – of course it does, the shock of it ricochets down his body like it’s made of electricity – but he sinks into it without question. He knows he shouldn’t. He’s not even sure Marco’s properly conscious, and isn’t that a bit weird? But since he’s been thinking about this for way too long, his instincts just tell him to do it.

It’s the sort of kiss they would share if they’d been together forever, a ‘good morning’ kiss that’s soft and sweet but inevitably over quickly, and Jean will be damned if he’s going to let that happen. So he props himself up on an elbow and looms over Marco, kissing him again with slightly braver lips than before. Marco moves into it, a soft noise escaping his mouth as Jean’s hand tightens its grip in his hair. It’s out of nerves. Jean is fucking nervous.

He hasn’t kissed many people in his life, and none of them were people he really wanted to kiss; he’s thankful that at least Marco knows what he’s doing. His thumb is tracing the line of his jaw, stroking it there to ground him, and the hand that was smoothing up his back is now tracing lower, inch by inch, to the hem of his shirt. Jean sucks in a breath and hollows his back as the touch makes his skin spark, pressing himself close to Marco and feeling him solid and safe and _there…_

“BREAKFAST, BOYS!” comes the all too familiar shout of his mother from outside his door.

Jean moves so fast he nearly falls out of the bed. He actually scrambles back, taking half of the duvet with him. Marco blinks at his new position at the edge of the bed, holding his knees to his chest. They both look at each other. Neither speak.

“HEY, STOP SUCKING FACE AND GET OUT HERE!” It’s Eddie this time, and her knocks on the door send all thoughts skittering into the corners of his room.

Marco’s mouth is open, and all Jean wants to do is shut it up with another kiss but _that_ is how they got into this fucking mess in the first place. He looks so good led there, the covers pooling over his waist and his shirt rucked up enough for him to see the arch of his hips. He looks like a statue, with the light dappling him from Jean’s curtains. Fuck, Jean wants. He wants so bad. That want stretches between them both. But Jean can’t let it land – he _can’t_. So he gets up.

“Jean-” Marco starts, but Jean’s already fishing for a jacket with fumbling hands.

“We’ll be out in a minute!” he shouts back, pulling the offending jacket on and zipping it up to his chin. He used to do this when he was younger, mainly because it felt safer. It doesn’t work quite so well now. Without looking at Marco, he skirts the edge of his bed and gets to the door, pulling it open just as Eddie gets ready to knock again.

She looks more like his sister out of her business suit, but her shit-eating grin is not something Jean wants to deal with first thing in the morning. “Wasn’t interrupting anything, was I?”

Jean’s stomach twists at the very thought of it. If only she fucking knew… “No,” he says, a bite to his words so sharp that the grin falls away from Eddie’s face. “Just leave me the fuck alone, Eddie. I’m not in the mood.”

She opens her mouth to argue back, then looks over Jean’s shoulder. He wonders if she can see Marco. He wonders how Marco looks to her. He doesn’t dare look back. He instead ducks under the arm Eddie’s using to lean against his doorframe and heads down to breakfast, like the coward he is.

* * *

The morning was something of a whirlwind. After Jean stormed downstairs with panic bursting out of his chest, Marco followed a minute later. He insisted on helping Jean’s mother with the eggs and bacon, and poured the coffee into a mismatch of mugs before handing them out to each grateful member of the Kirschtein family. He worked like an actor, all smiles and sunny dispositions – but he never looked at Jean. Didn’t even glance at him. He was being such a fucking gentleman about it all, still being so professional, and that made Jean feel fucking awful. He was reminded, every time Marco’s smile bounced off his chair or his place at the table but never him, that he is the bad guy in this. _He_ is the one who went too far. The one who believed the lie, just like his family did.

Yeah. Like he doesn’t need fucking reminding of that.

Eddie continues to watch them at the breakfast table, but this time she’s squinting between them both. There’s no teasing in her expression, and not a single awkward question is asked. His mother, meanwhile, doesn’t seem to notice the cloud hanging over them both, bustling around the kitchen and twittering away to Eddie about her job. Marco keeps quiet, pushing his eggs around his plate for a touch longer than necessary, until he finally speaks up. “Mrs Kirscht- Linette, did I see a piano in your living room?”

Jean’s mother blinks. “Oh, yes! I’m afraid it’s more of a dumping ground than a piano nowadays. It’s a shame, it’s a lovely old thing, but no one plays anymore.”

She doesn’t say that it’s because Jean’s father was the one who played, and the fact he never took the piano with him means it’s a constant reminder that he won’t be coming back for it.

“It’s a beautiful piano,” Marco says. “Is it a Steinway?”

“Yes!” Jean’s mother is delighted. “You certainly know your pianos!”

Jean wants to remind her that it’s basically Marco’s job to know pianos, but instead he gazes into the depths of the coffee Marco made for him instead. It’s exactly how Jean likes it.

Marco’s smile is generous. “Well, piano is my instrument. I’ve got high grades in viola, French horn and sax, but I always come back to the piano. There’s nothing like it.” Jean sneaks a glance, watches the way he lights up as he talks. It’s the back-up subject, the one he can never fail to find a reason to talk about. Jean can’t get enough of hearing Marco talk about music.

He’s seen Marco relaxed behind a piano, his hands gliding around the expanse of keys like it’s a black and white ocean and his fingers the key to unlocking waves. Marco shuts his eyes when he plays, which Jean often jokes is to show off to all the other music students that he came out of the womb musically gifted, but it’s not that at all. It’s because he feels the music, he loses himself in it. And when he gets asked questions about it, questions he loves to answer, it’s like seeing a little taster of that loss.

That’s how, after the breakfast things are cleared away, Jean’s mother clears space in the living room and the sound of Chopin’s _Nocturne in E Flat Major_ floats around the house on gossamer wings. And how Jean exiles himself to the safety of the kitchen to call for back-up.

In hindsight, he could have picked _better_ back-up.

“Connie, I need help.”

“Is this an ‘I need money for bail’ kinda help or ‘I’m having an emotion’ kinda help? Gotta be more specific, man.”

“ _Connie_.”

“Oh, I see, it’s a ‘my idea blew up in my face and now I need to rant about it’ help.”

“Do you have to be such a smartass all the time?”

“Unfortunately yes.”

Jean paces back and forth in the kitchen, his phone jammed to his ear as he keeps casting furtive glances over his shoulder in case anyone dares come in. The Chopin continues, gentle and lilting, so he knows he has some time.

“What’s going on?” Connie prompts, and Jean can practically see the eye-roll. “Is that… oh my god did Marco find your dad’s piano?”

“Of course he did!” Jean hisses. “He’s within a two mile radius of a piano, he had to play it! My family are entranced! My mother is leaning against the piano with a _tissue_ to her _eyes_ , Connie!”

“Ooh boy. That’s a problem.”

“Con’. What the fuck do I do.”

“About what?”

Jean wants to throw something. “He’s made my family fall in love with him. They’re going to start singing and clapping along soon like they’re on It’s A Wonderful Life.”

There’s a pause. “I don’t think you can sing along to classical music.”

“You are completely missing the point.” Jean huffs. “Ma is gonna cry when we fake break up.”

“Here’s a revolutionary thought,” Connie answers. “Why don’t you just. Not break up.”

“Ha ha,” Jean says sarcastically, leaning on the nearest countertop. “Hilarious, thanks.”

“Not a joke.”

“We have to _fake_ break up,” Jean stresses, “because I made an ass of myself this morning.”

“Wait, wait, wait.” Connie’s more alert now. “What did you do?”

Jean pinches his brows together and lets out a sigh. “I kissed him. When we were in bed. I broke the rule.” Connie’s silent for a long time. Jean starts pacing again. “There was a ‘no kissing’ rule,” he explains. “We said we weren’t gonna do that. And I did and now he knows I like him and I need to leave the country.”

“Okay, you need to slow down. You were in _bed_ with him, and you kissed him, and I’m guessing he kissed you back?” A pause. “And somehow… this is a bad thing?”

Jean growls in frustration. “It is when I’ve bought my own con!”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re right, especially since you could be _dating it instead._ ”

Jean scowls at the ceiling. “You are literally no help.”

“I honestly don’t know what you expected,” Connie replies with a sigh, “but c’mon. You are in love with this guy. What have you got to lose?”

“Everything,” Jean says hopelessly. “Absolutely everything.” When Connie makes a sceptical noise down the phone at him, Jean scoffs and turns around – and nearly walks straight into Eddie. His mouth drops open. Oh _shit._ “C-Connie I gotta go,” he gabbles, and amid Connie’s confused questions he hangs up.

Eddie’s got her arms folded now, an eyebrow arched.

“Is there, um, any chance whatsoever you didn’t hear any of that?” Jean squeaks.

She shakes her head.

Oh god, he is _fucked_.

“I came out here to kick your ass for leaving your boyfriend on his own with Ma,” she says, and Jean doesn’t doubt that for a second. “Seems I need to kick your ass even more.”

Jean swallows painfully. “Okay. Okay, I can explain.”

Eddie purses her lips and hops onto the kitchen counter, legs swinging in the air. “Explain fast.”

So he does. Amid the ebb and flow of Marco’s playing, he tells Eddie everything. When he’s finished he waits. Eddie slips off the counter.

“Jean Kirschtein, you are such an idiot.”

Well. Okay. This is fine. Jean’s honestly surprised it’s nothing stronger.

“No. Wait.” She holds up a finger. “You’re more than an idiot. You’re a moron.”

Jean frowns. “Isn’t that the same thing?”

Eddie immediately attacks him with a dishcloth.

“Ow ow ow Eddie!” He ducks after the first hit but she snaps it smartly against his arm instead. He tries to dart out of the way but it’s impossible; their kitchen is larger than most but it’s narrow, which makes avoiding his sister’s onslaught way harder. Eddie’s always been faster than him too – once the hundred meter sprint, and now years later chasing him around the kitchen with a kitchen cloth.

“You – are – such – a – dumb – fucking – idiot,” she says between hits.

“EDDIE STOP WHAT THE FUCK.”

“NO, YOU ARE A MORON.”

Jean manages to grab hold of the cloth and wrench it away from his sister, but as they stand there facing off against one another, breathing hard, he’s almost certain she’s going to find something else to torture him with. Before she has the chance he holds up his hands. “Why am I a moron?!” he hisses.

Eddie looks like she wants to throttle him. “Because that boy is hopelessly in love with you!”

Every coherent thought in Jean’s brain screeches to a halt. There’s a ten car pile-up in there. “Wh-what the fuck are you talking about, no he isn’t.”

Eddie lets out a growl of frustration so loud Jean hears the tune falter in the neighbouring room. “Oh my GOD you are so ridiculous.”

“Wh-”

“Jean, have you been conscious this entire time? I have known Marco for 24 hours and I can see how head over heels he is for you!”

Jean shakes himself. No. No, that can’t be right. “He’s a good actor,” he says in a panic.

“He’s a terrible actor,” Eddie says, completely deadpan. “Honestly. He’s lucky he has a gift for music, because he is not winning an Oscar any time soon.”

“But he-”

“I didn’t believe for one minute you two were together.” Eddie sighs and leans back against the fridge. “You looked like you were waiting for someone to feed you a line from off-stage the whole time you were talking to Ma and Marco was always dancing around you, worried about getting too close. You’re just lucky Ma’s illiterate when it comes to body language. But… then he told us that story about you in the art room.” She lets her mouth curve into a smile – just a little. “And there was no acting there. That was straight from the heart. And I thought, ‘woah. My little brother really does have a boyfriend’.” Then she glares him down. “Now I just think my little brother is so oblivious and self-sabotaging I need to knock some sense into him.”

Jean’s still reeling from the idea that _Marco might like him Marco might like him_ to think straight. Eddie apparently takes his silence as a threat, as she takes a step towards him with a dark look. He throws up his hands in surrender and backs up. “Look. You beating me up isn’t going to help.”

“For once, you’re right.” She glowers at him. “What is going to help is you getting in there and talking to him.”

Jean blanches at the very thought of it. “I can’t talk to him,” he bleats.

“You can and you will,” Eddie says, and seizes him by the shoulder before he has chance to squirm away. She forcibly steers him out of the kitchen and towards the living room, where whichever piece Marco is playing is beginning to filter out into the notes he doesn’t quite remember. “Have some balls for once in your life,” Eddie hisses in his ear. “And actually _look_ at the fucking boy you brought home.”

Jean is shoved unceremoniously forward into the living room, and the music stops completely. Marco turns around on the piano bench that’s been cleared of clutter for him, and for the first time since that morning, he looks at him. He hides it well, but Jean can tell he’s hurting. Living with a guy for three months solid does that to you. There’s a lingering energy that always crackles and spits around Marco like static whenever he plays, and maybe he leans into that a little, Jean can’t be sure, but his smile at the sight of him at least seems genuine.

“You were gone a while,” he greets.

It stings, no matter how lightly it’s said, but Jean gets it.

He shrugs, ignoring Eddie’s elbow in the small of his back. “Connie called,” he says. It’s not strictly a lie.

“You usually don’t leave me alone when I play.”

Jean bites his lip. God, he’s right; when he plays Jean is inherently drawn to it, like Marco’s the pied fucking piper. “I could hear it from the kitchen.” He swallows painfully, knowing full well he’s being weird but unable to stop it. “I like it when you play Chopin.”

“I know,” Marco replies softly. “That’s why I play Chopin so much.”

Jean feels like the wind’s been knocked out of him. It’s such an innocent sounding comment, but it’s anything but. Because Marco _does_ play Chopin a lot. He plays him all the time, especially when he knows Jean is around to hear it. He’s even stopped playing something else and switched to one of the _nocturnes_ when Jean enters the room before. He remembers telling Marco once that Chopin’s compositions feel like dreams to him, woven delicately like spider’s webs, and the way Marco stared at him with a wondrous smile on his face as he agreed. Marco was playing, all this time, for him?

“Do you, uh…” He clears his throat. His family are here, he reminds himself. He can’t make an idiot of himself. “Do you even _like_ Chopin?” he asks. There’s a gentle tease to it, the kind a partner would use, but it’s a real question. Marco knows it is.

Marco looks back to the keys shyly. “I, uh, prefer Erik Satie actually.” There’s a redness to his cheeks that wasn’t there before. “But I like playing for you.”

Jean’s mother coos, “aww that’s so romantic,” and that’s all the answer Jean needs. Without asking, he moves to sit down next to Marco on the bench. He doesn’t leave any space between them. Marco looks down at him, his eyes questioning – _is this part of the arrangement? –_ but Jean can’t answer him. He hopes that shuffling even closer, threading his fingers through the hand not trembling on the piano keys, and asking, “Could you play some Erik Satie for me?” is enough.

And Marco’s answer, as his smile becomes broader, as he turns his head and presses a kiss to the side of Jean’s head, is to play.

* * *

The next Christmas they’ll spend together, they’ll go to Marco’s. They will turn up on the doorstep with their fingers interlaced, Jean’s palms sweaty. But this time, when they look at one another, Jean will lean in and press his lips to Marco’s for luck, smiling into it even when Marco bats him away with a laugh. That kiss will be well-known, comfortable and normal by that point. And it won’t break any sort of rule.


End file.
